


A Hym(n) for the Lost

by Aikori_Ichijouji, AkisMusicBox



Series: Last Quill and Testament: The Official Witcher Scribe series [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: A mage who can't help but get involved, Alcohol, Description of Injury/Illness, Kaer Seren, M/M, Treasure Hunting, letters never sent, past original character death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 01:34:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29181084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aikori_Ichijouji/pseuds/Aikori_Ichijouji, https://archiveofourown.org/users/AkisMusicBox/pseuds/AkisMusicBox
Summary: A young mage investigates the ruins of Kaer Seren and stumbles across the story of Cenek, a long-dead witcher, and his parting from Merrick, a self-proclaimed Official Witcher Scribe. Her curiosity around their story has her cross paths with Geralt and Jaskier, the holders of the second half of the story.Please read On The Fringes of Everything, the first story in the series, before reading this one!
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Last Quill and Testament: The Official Witcher Scribe series [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2142315
Comments: 15
Kudos: 17





	1. Everything is [indecipherable]

**Author's Note:**

> What can we say besides we love these OCs just a bit too much?

Aisling hadn’t been disappointed to be assigned to investigate the ruins of Kaer Seren. King Tankred Thyssen insisted that his mages take an account of the significant locations in Kovir and Poviss and, while the others had gotten assignments that looked better on paper, she was pleased with hers. Not that she’d admit it.

The witchers from the School of the Griffin seemed to fancy themselves magical knights in their heyday, which, her order had taken justified (if only partially, in her opinion) umbridge with such an approach to magic. It was like a child learning their scales and believing themselves a pianist. Roasting a rabbit on a spit did not make one a chef. So on and so forth, to this day, it was argued that the world was for the better without Griffins spawning under their noses. 

Aisling believed that not every problem required an expert, though. Tools of all sizes exist for jobs of all scales, and their magic often fit their purpose, based on her reading. It was a matter of ecology, not purity, she had argued with her advisor one evening among her fellow mages who were equally as deep into a barrel of mead as she was. Hence, her assignment. 

The decrepit state of the keep had saddened her more than she anticipated. To see trees pierce through the once-ceilings and weeds carpet the cracked stone floors felt to her as if the earth would consume it all in time. She was tempted to start burning away the overgrowth, here and there, to make the place at least a shelter for any lost souls, but decided better of it. At least for now, she needed to write her records. Assess it all for what it was now. She’d see how she felt after her work was done.

Rusted alchemical equipment, even rustier swords, and moth and rain-eaten tomes were found around the chambers. She’d be able construct some sort of report on these, a boring one that would only get skimmed over at best. But, she felt her luck may have improved when she came across a door with a witcher medallion hanging on a nail in the middle of it. She wiped the dust off to reveal the relief of a griffin’s head, but she didn’t remove it. With some elbow grease she opened the door. 

The straw mattress had nearly dissolved. No weapons, no books, just broken glass bottles in a pile of black rags that must have once been clothes. The dresser held a candlestick coated in wax, a shattered looking glass, and a small basin. The drawer on the dresser was stuck, but she couldn’t just leave it shut. If bottles and clothes didn’t merit privacy for a witcher, Aisling thought, then that what did must have been better. She removed the contents from the top before she sent a quick blast of energy at the drawer, just enough to splinter the wood so she could pry it away.

An inkwell, long dry. The remainders of a quill. And several crumpled pieces of parchment. “Oh my, what have we here?” Aisling asked the dust motes and the sneeze threatening to come out. She pulled out one of the wads and flattened it, only to scowl at the chicken scratch and ink stains inside. Pulling a fresh candle from her satchel and placing it in the holder, she lit it and began the process of deciphering the appalling handwriting.

_Everything is [indecipherable] fine. Koviri politicians like to try and pull witchers into their games, so for once, [indecipherable] trying their best to not do something._

_I don’t have a head for those things. I don’t have [indecipherable] nowadays._

Then, a long line that was scratched though, tearing the paper in the process of obliterating the message.

“Had hands for swordwork, not penmanship, huh?” Aisling said before she pulled out another.

_I’m not well, Merrick. That was likely obvious to you, but it’s worth saying. My brothers are trying to help, because it’s worth it to their consciousnesses to try. I’m writing you because [indecipherable]._

Then, another one.

_I’ve changed my mind, I’m leaving. I can’t stand another [indecipherable]. But, I need your help. Once you read this [indecipherable]. I’ll pay you back. Don’t argue. Just come quickly._

She didn’t grab the next letter as eagerly.

_My brothers are [indecipherable]. They are trying. I have to tell myself that with every nigh lethal con[indecipherable]. Every [indecipherable]. Every attempt at them being clever._

_They are clever. But how do you outwit yourself? It’s an impossible task. I shouldn’t be there to taunt them. But [indecipherable] home._

_But… [indecipherable]._ Ripped through once again.

In her satchel, she found a flask and took a long drink. Then, grabbed the last parchment ball, covered equally in red and black stains.

_Rictan only orders shit wine, hence why I drink it by the bottle, not the tankard. Quantity over quality [indecipherable] I’m not an experiment. Done with [indecipherable]._

_At least you let me rest. I thought the questions burning in your looks were bad. I was wrong. [indecipherable]_

_More oft than not I decide to [indecipherable]. But I can’t. What if you found out?_

Aisling sank to the floor. Then, drank some more. How could she not include this in her report? How _could_ she with a clean conscience? 

“You didn’t even have the decency to sign your name, witcher.” She buried her head in her hands. 

She had to start over. Look at the artifacts, the evidence with this information. The witchers were trying to save this one from some ailment that defied their efforts. She could figure it out with what was left, surely. The methods they used, the struggles they faced, those could make worthy topics for the report, not the contents of the letters themselves. She was a _mage_ , she could piece together what the witchers were up to. 

And, if she found out who Merrick and this witcher were in the process, all the better.


	2. Upon Themselves

Triss Merigold had been a friend and colleague almost from the instant they met in Temeria a few years ago. She was also the only person she was close enough to who happened to know actual witchers. Luckily, Triss was already in her study when Aisling emerged from her portal. While she knew Triss would probably try to get her to consult with Yennefer instead, she hoped a surprise visit would circumvent that. Aisling was barely a newly minted mage herself—with little more than a couple decades of experience—and Yennefer of Vengerberg frightened her in ways she cared not to admit.

“I found evidence of unsuccessful attempts to redirect the possession to another host; remains of animals of all sizes in a cellar. There was even an inventory listing that looked as if they were going to try to administer the Trial of the Grasses a second time to make the host’s body as inhospitable as possible.” She sighed. “But, other than the fact that it was some sort of possession, it’s not one I’ve ever encountered before.”

Triss gave a thoughtful hum. “I take it their bestiaries were destroyed?”

“Lost to rot and rain,” she confirmed with a frown.

Triss hummed again. “I’ve a hunch as to what it could be but I think this is better served as a teaching moment.” Aisling deflated at her knowing smile. “You have the expansive library of the University of Lan Exeter at your disposal, after all.”

She handed Aisling a piece of parchment where she’d written a book title in her careful, looping script; _Behind the Great Veil_ .

“Witchers are a dying breed,” Triss asserted, her tone serious. “One that has categorical knowledge of the various creatures who roam the continent. Knowledge that will be lost if others don’t take it upon themselves to learn it.”

Aisling nodded finally in agreement. In all honesty, telling her the answer would have only gotten her so far. Should anyone question the details of her report, she needed accurate answers at the ready. She thanked Triss and left with a promise to arrange a proper meeting for the two of them to catch up over drinks.

* * *

The library at the University was bustling for some reason. It was usually somewhat busy with scholars coming and going throughout the day but this was something altogether different. She had to wade through a cluster of people only to be stuck behind two men who blocked her path. Both were too preoccupied with looking towards the small podium set up to one side of the main entrance to notice she was trying to get by. The one on the left was gaily dressed in bright blue that perfectly contrasted with his dark brown hair. On the right, the other’s hair was an odd shade of grey-ish white that seemed a mismatch with his stature and assumed age.

“What luck that we heard Owen was dedicating the first printed copy of the book to his Master’s alma mater today,” the brown haired one exclaimed. “Maybe we won’t have to travel all the way south for our copy now.”

The man beside him just grunted in agreement.

“Do you think Owen has connections here?” the one on the left continued. “I wonder if he could get me in as a guest lecturer while you’re off doing your wintering thing.”

“A guest lecturer from a lesser rival university?” The other man let out a low, derisive snort. “I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

Ah, so one of them was a professor or scholar of some sort. Though that didn’t really explain his garish style of dress. The other seemed to be just… taciturn? 

“I’d think academia has a bit more decorum regarding interrelations than your brothers and their petty squabbles with other schools,” the man in blue huffed, putting two petulant fists on his hips.

“Right, because incidents where people have died amount to little more than petty squabbles,” the pale-haired one drawled, his deep voice dry with sarcasm.

Aisling found she suddenly had a burning desire to know what type of school that man attended.

“Anyway, Merrick taught at Oxenfurt once,” the brunet continued, ignoring his companion’s comment. “The reverse could also prove true.”

Aisling already had a mouth full of questions for them but those were all set aside at the sound of a familiar name. She was just about to interrupt the pair in the hope that the Merrick of their conversation was the very same from the nameless witcher’s discarded notes when she was shoved aside rather violently by several people pushing past her. By the time she regained her footing, the entire crowd had shifted. She searched for the beacon of white hair amongst the sea of people and found them near to the podium talking with a man dressed in scholarly robes—clearly from another University, if the color was anything to go by—who spoke to them with a warm smile of familiarity.

She still had yet to see their faces, but marked that of the man in the robes. Hopefully she would be able to find him later. Falling back to where the crowd had thinned a bit, she wove her way around the edge of the gathering until she could enter the library. First, she had some reading to do.

Her curiosity would have to wait.

* * *

A flyer indicated to her that this Owen would be speaking in two hours on the green in front of the library. Two rolls of the bell before her chance to find the ones who were speaking about Merrick came again, she hoped. She could cram it all in, she knew it. 

The book Triss has given her made it clear to her the nature of a Hym but left many things unanswered. Where did the witchers get their ideas on how to defeat it? Did they reach out to the Koviri mages for assistance? What contract did her Griffin (for that is what she resorted to calling him in her head, for lack of a proper name) take that lead to his fate? 

The last one, she had some hope of answering thanks to the prospective guest lecturer in blue. Even if alumni make their mark at a rival institution, the University would never pass up an opportunity to take all the credit they could and feature every publication possible. 

When Aisling made it to the third floor of the library, she cracked her knuckles and made her way through the stacks. 

* * *

As the bell tolled, she swore to herself and flew back down the stairs. Once again, she hadn't paced herself correctly. Her progress through Merrick's works had been painfully slow, and that was repeatedly due to her not researching the question most burning in her brain at the time. So, halfway through her time she stormed up to the fourth floor to access a collection limited only to graduates of magical institutions, like herself. She needed to know what her people knew about Hym. And if they could have helped.

When she made it down to the green, gasping for breath, Owen was already speaking to the crowd about the "labor of love" the story was. She scanned the crowd, through the mess of robed figures for any hint of vivid blue, but her short stature wouldn't abide by a search from a distance. Steeling herself, it was her turn to nudge her way through the crowd for any sights of them.

Then, two things happened at once. Long white hair caught her eye merely ten bodies away. And then, Owen said, "In conclusion, nothing feels more fitting to honor my Master Merrick's memory than his final work finding a resting place here, as his journey began here so long ago. Thank you." 

Polite applause masked Aisling's mutter of, "Oh, you _stupid_ girl." Owen _knew_ Merrick. That's why the two were here, talking about him — what a _waste._ What an imbecile she was, thinking she was so clever while missing the obvious. The crowd was dispersing and the white-hair was going in the opposite direction of Owen. 

She couldn't follow them both. 


	3. Whilst Invading My Privacy

She followed after Owen. It was the obvious choice, she had to tell herself. Who better to speak with than the person who worked with Merrick? White haired men and their ostentatiously dressed friends who had intriguing conversations were clearly the inferior choice. Still, she couldn’t help but wonder if she made the right decision.

A small reception was being held for the university’s guest in one of the galleries inside the library. Aisling found her quarry in the far corner of the room being introduced to several people and having the usual mincing conversations with each of them. Her intention was to wait patiently until he was alone to approach him. However, her best laid plans went, predictably, awry.

It was all that damned book’s fault. A handful of copies were placed on tables throughout the room where people could peruse it and she did just that when she found little else to do while she waited. The conversations were dull and the people even more so. Academic types were typically less reserved than most about speaking with mages but their questions were either so analytical or philosophical they almost always put her in a torpor. The book, however, was anything but boring.

Her ability to tear through books with remarkable speed was always a point of pride for her. As such, she was so engrossed in the story that she’d made it a third of the way through before noticing someone stood quietly beside her. She bit back her yelp of surprise to find Owen looking at her with an amused smile.

“I never imagined a sorceress would be interested in a work of fiction.”

“When the story is as engaging as this one, I find it difficult not to be.” Aisling summoned every bit of courtly decorum and slowly put the book down to properly face Owen. “I’m Aisling Sauveterre, one of the king’s mages.”

He clasped her extended hand in both of his and offered a humble bow of his head. “It is an honor. I truly did not expect this much ceremony when I first wrote to the university. I only wished to pay proper tribute to the memory of Master Merrick.”

“The university does love the pomp and circumstance of parading around the accomplishments of their alumni,” Aisling said with a polite laugh. “And doubly so when it’s posthumous.”

“You must have to attend these often then.”

She gently shook her head at his misunderstanding. “No, I’m actually here quite by accident.”

Owen seemed genuinely intrigued then. He leaned forward and she waited for him to ask the question she would use as a lead-in to satisfying her own curiosity.

“And what series of events could have possibly led you to voraciously devouring a fictional tale about a witcher during a reception?” he asked finally.

She smiled and chose her words carefully so that she wouldn’t sound as suspicious as she was.

“I was here to find a book at the recommendation of a colleague after an investigative assignment from the king revealed things that were outside my scope of knowledge,” she began to explain. “It just so happened that the name of your late Master was involved. Rather, it was _a_ Merrick who was involved, but I wasn’t fully convinced they were one and the same until I’d read this.” She tapped a finger against the cover of the book on the table.

Owen’s expression seemed to close itself off with a staggering swiftness. “Wh-what were you investigating exactly?”

Aisling’s smile fell flat and she wondered what her misstep was to cause such a reaction. But there was nothing for it other than to answer his question.

“The ruins of Kaer Seren.”

His eyes widened and his lips pulled themselves so tightly together they nearly disappeared. There was a tremble in his hands and she hoped it was from excitement rather than fear.

“We cannot discuss this here,” he said, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “The university has arranged for my lodging at the nearby inn. We can meet in the tavern this evening to talk more.”

Any doubts Aisling had regarding her previous decisions were obliterated. She nodded eagerly and bid the man farewell until later. This mystery of Merrick and his connection to the unnamed witcher was, apparently, far more complex than she’d wagered. And finally, _finally_ she would have some answers.

She arranged for a room at her usual inn for that night; a modest establishment that was still close enough to the city center. Already exhausted from her earlier efforts, she thought it best to ensure she had a place to rest should her conversation with Owen go long into the night. After all, travelling by portal under the influence of alcohol and fatigue never ended well.

Leaving the inn, she planned to peruse the shops in the city during her free time. She was about to head off when bright blue in her periphery stopped her. The two men from earlier had stepped out from the inn’s nearby stables and were walking away down an alley opposite from where she stood. Only something was different now, the brunet had a lute slung across his back and his friend had a sword strapped to his.

“I found a place to perform tonight,” the flashier one of the pair proclaimed in cheerful tones as they walked.

Aisling could only gape at their retreating forms because, seriously, what were the odds?

And, as she stood there watching them turn a corner, in her stupor, she got a hunch that it was likely better than she had first assumed. Owen _and_ the flashy one — perhaps a music professor — both had ties to Merrick. The one with a sword on his back had an impressive physique, one that dwarfed some of the king’s very best soldiers. With a sword on his back instead of his hip, there was a chance that maybe, just maybe, he was a witcher himself

Maybe he had known her dearly departed Griffin. Possibly, she chose wrong when she followed Owen. And, most definitely, she was going to make up for it now by finding the white haired one.

The problem with commencing a foot chase on the streets of Lan Exeter was that the streets were actually canals, which left foot traffic crammed on small walkways on either side, connected by narrow bridges here and there. Being near the city center meant the walkways were crowded and her frantic search was slowed considerably. She tried to find her way to armories, blacksmiths, and herbalists, but none of the patrons were her targets. She was also forced to move at a certain pace or disrupt the flow of foot traffic — and it made her feel as if someone was always following her, because technically she was in everyone’s way. When the sun started setting, she made her way back to the inn. Her heels were raw with blisters and she felt a dirty, sweaty mess. She needed to compose herself, to put on a clean frock and a serene smile so that when she met Owen, he’d feel at ease. He’d trust her to be his ally. 

But by the time she made it to the door of her room, she noticed too late that something was wrong. A low hum of energy was coming from it that had nothing to do with her and her possessions. Someone was _in_ there and they had magic and she had been blindsided. She balled a fist and and entered.

“You’ve been rather busy, mageling,” a low voice rumbled from the very man she’d tried to track down all day. He was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed, sword firmly sheathed. But, she knew it could be out in an instant because of his yellow, cat-like eyes. _Witcher._ And that confirmation of her somewhat wild idea kept her from loosing lightning in fear. 

“I am a fully ascended mage from Aretuza, Master Witcher, and I’d suggest you remember that whilst invading my privacy.” Her voice quivered ever so slightly, so the assertion only made him smile.

“Duly noted, mageling.” 

His amusement made that fear quickly morph to annoyance. “My name is Aisling Sauveterre and I serve a _king!_ ”

“Bit wild, still,” said the familiar voice the lute-bearer from before, perched on her bed as if he’d been granted permission there. “Definitely young.”

She glared at him, next, hoping to turn down that smile at least somewhat. “I’ve been compared to a young Yennefer of Vengeberg, sir. It’s not a detriment, but a promise of what’s to come.”

He looked at the witcher and laughed boisterously. “Nothing has ever been more fitting, Geralt!” Wiping nonexistent tears from his eyes, he added, “Oh my, we’re rather in trouble now.”

Geralt spared a chuckle as well before saying, “All right, Jaskier, let’s get to the point.” Then, those yellow eyes found her again. “Owen’s been a bit worried lately and requested we look into the sorceress who frightened him so before he meets with you.”

And he sent a witcher to do it?! Did this man not know how such a suggestion would sound to her, as if she were some beast? She nearly told him so, until she caught a look at his medallion. The logo was wrong, but when her eyes caught silver it’s as if she was dusting the medallion she’d found on the door all over again. Her scattered thoughts took the man before him and pictured him weakened, skinny, haunted, and drunkenly drafting letters that would never be sent. So, she took a deep breath and closed the door, trapping herself in with the intruders. 

“Fine. Ask me whatever you wish as long as I get my questions answered in return. By you, by Owen, whoever, but I must know more about Merrick and my Gri — I mean, his witcher.”

She watched both of them lean forward in interest after her admission. Then they exchanged a look between each other that seemed like it carried a month long conversation within itself. One nodded and the other responded in kind. Their silent discourse concluded and they turned to her, stone faced.

“What have you found?” the one called Jaskier asked and Aisling had that irritating itch in the back of her mind that the name was familiar to her.

But she had more pressing things to attend to than that. Namely, avoiding the wrath of a witcher who had expertly cornered her as if she were little more than a forktail swiping sheep from a village.

“The king assigned me to investigate the ruins of Kaer Seren,” she explained with a weary sigh. “I found… things there. Letters, I suppose, if you excuse the appalling penmanship. A witcher had started writing them but all of them were unfinished, unsigned. My only clue was his mention of someone named Merrick. I came here to research about Hym. It was just a lucky coincidence that I happened to overhear you speaking about Owen, I promise.”

The one she now knew was named Geralt hummed, quiet and thoughtful, to himself. He almost sounded like Triss when she was deep in concentration and—oh sweet, merciful Melitele’s tits. She knew of this man, this witcher. This wasn’t just any witcher. This was _the_ White Wolf, Geralt of Rivia. Which meant the man sitting on her bed, with eyes that glittered in excitement, was the bard who helped make Geralt a household name. Triss had once told her all about him and his entanglements with Yennefer once over several bottles of Est Est.

No wonder they’d derided her choice to compare herself to that sorceress in particular.

“Do you have the letters?” Geralt asked once he was done contemplating.

Aisling went immediately to where her satchel sat on the small table beside the bed. Reaching into the side pocket, she pulled out the heavily wrinkled parchment that she tried her best to flatten out and fold. Turning back to her unwanted visitors, she saw Jaskier holding out two eager hands towards her. She placed them into his outstretched palms and he immediately began leafing through them.

“Geralt you have to see this,” Jaskier gasped as he did his best to read the horrific scrawl of misshapen letters. “It’s Cenek. It has to be.”

“Cenek?” Aisling asked when Geralt moved quickly to sit beside Jaskier and read over the bard’s shoulder. “Is that the Griffin’s name?”

The two men stopped their perusal long enough to look up at her and nod in unison. She breathed out the tension that had built in her chest since she’d first found those letters. At last, the witcher had a name. But that was not the end of it. There was more to all of this that she still didn’t know.

“What-what is he—Cenek, I mean—to Merrick? What is their story?” The words tumbled from her mouth in a rush as fast as her lips could form them. “He was miserable and his brothers couldn’t help him. He was dying in that place and yet he tried to write—” She faltered. “Please. Please, I need to know.”

Jaskier gave her a sad smile, as if he understood, before turning to Geralt.

“I think we should all meet with Owen and see if we can’t finally put the pieces together into one complete narrative.”


	4. The Duality of Life

"Buy the booze," she murmured to herself as she hefted four corked bottles up to her room. For the sake of privacy, Jaskier had advised they meet in her room instead of the common room of the tavern. He had to cancel his performance. Geralt needed to guide Owen to the room. 

"Make up for my lost wages," Jaskier had said with a raised eyebrow. "Don't go cheap."

She didn't; she was well employed, thank you very much, so she got two kinds of mead and wine, all vinted from the region, as well as four silver goblets.

It at least wasn't a surprise when her room was already occupied. Owen and Jaskier hovered over the letters on the desk, while Geralt was perched in his same spot on the wall. He roused himself to help her with the load. "Thank you," he said, not unkindly. "Believe me, it is necessary." With strangely deft fingers, he uncorked a bottle and took a drink straight from it. Then, repeated the process with another. He looked over to Jaskier. “Blackberry or peach?”

“Peach,” Jaskier said, heading back to the bed. Geralt sat next to him and handed him the bottle, as if this was habit.

Owen was facing her now, somewhat abashed. He cleared his throat. “I should apologize for the mistrust, but I hope once we’ve laid everything bare, you will understand. So…” He held out a copy of his book. “I hope this serves as a peace offering, at least for now.”

She accepted it and studied the title for a time. _The Many Adventures of Arlow of Malleore_ had begun so full of adventure with the right amount of comedy. She hoped she’d have the will to finish it after this. She offered him a bottle.

“Peace.”

He smiled as he took the bottle, then worked away at opening it for a while until he gave up and handed it to Geralt. He obligingly opened it. She pursed her lips.

Owen nodded. “Excessive, perhaps, but there is much to unpack. I’ve spent a major part of my life trying to obscure the truths of Cenek and Merrick that even now, in relative privacy, it feels unnatural.” He took a large drink from the bottle. “But I think you understand that to a degree.” He gestured to the letters. “I know there are magical ways to uncover what lies beneath the scratches and stains, but you haven’t touched them. I’d reckon you’ve not attempted to restore them at all.”

She chewed her lip. “He didn’t even try to send them. It didn’t seem right.” Which was ridiculous — she was clearly willing to go this far to learn more about Cenek. But, taking it from him, from a time in his lowest point… 

She reached into a satchel and pulled out her own knife to open her bottle. Jaskier gave a low whistle. “Anyway,” she said, focusing on her task but speaking to Owen. “You were Merrick’s assistant in the later part of his life. You never met Cenek, did you?” 

“Sadly no. Cenek passed away many years prior and the circumstances around that seemed to plague Merrick for quite some time.”

Geralt drank. Jasker nudged him with a knee. “Neither of us met him either,” Jaskier said. “Wolf school’s on the other side of the Kestrel Mountains. But we found a series of Merrick’s notes that drove our curiosity as well.”

“What were they to each other, then?” she asked. She didn’t quite believe it, but it left Jaskier wordless, gripping his bottle and looking to Geralt for help. Geralt shook his head, as if regretting taking a breath of air from the bottle. She looked back to Owen, but he had taken the beat to fortify himself as well.

Normally, when a group of men tried to make her feel bad for asking the tough questions, she got tougher. But this time, she empathized. Nearly regretted asking.

Geralt cleared his throat.

“Cenek and Merrick were travelling companions for quite some time. They had met under unusual circumstances and,” Geralt paused, letting his gaze flit over to Jaskier where it was met, held, and gently released, “they formed a bond.”

“Oh,” Aisling said softly over the top of her bottle. _Oh._

She was all at once relieved that she hadn’t chosen to extract the information from their minds directly. This wasn’t a court related matter or a potential threat to the realm. This was something deeply personal to all of them and her intrusion would neither be appropriate nor welcomed. For Owen, it would be robbing him of his Master’s precious memories that were shared in confidence. For Geralt and Jaskier—if their silent exchanges were anything to go by—she guessed they’d found kindred spirits.

And, yet, people had the gall to say witchers didn’t possess feelings. What an absolute load of horseshit that was.

“I suppose that covers the synopsis.” Aisling took a slow sip and licked the traces of wine clean from her lips. “But I think I need more of a story.”

Jaskier and Owen both laughed.

“Well,” Jaskier began with a grandiose flourish. “It starts with a baron who decided to hire both a witcher and a scribe for a contract to hunt a leshen.”

The next hours were filled with exposition that contained as much excitement and intrigue and flowery language as a bard and a novelist could manage—which was quite a lot. Geralt only chimed in to add the occasional dry fact or correction here and there when the two storytellers would gloss over particulars regarding monsters and witchers for the sake of a more compelling tale. Aisling listened intently to all of it; the history of Cenek and Merrick and the intertwining drama of the roles all three played in discovering each new piece of the plot. Every bit was funny, frightening, fascinating.

“And what about you?” Geralt directed the question towards her when the other two eventually went silent.

“What about me?” Aisling asked, completely lost and still reeling from the volume of information she’d gathered in a few hours.

“Sorry, he gets like this when there’s been a lot of talking,” Jaskier apologized. “I’ll translate. What he means to say is that you found the other half; the point of view we didn’t have. Surely there was more to it than just a few crumpled bits of parchment. We demand details.”

Aisling gripped the neck of her bottle as tightly as the unease that twisted in her gut. “It’s a bit… gruesome. There’s nothing beautiful or poetic about it.”

“That’s just part of the duality of life,” Owen dismissed with a shrug. “It’s also what makes a story richer. There is no hope without despair.”

“No comedy without tragedy,” Jaskier added.

The two men looked expectantly at Geralt, whose brow wrinkled in confusion. His shoulders drooped and he breathed out a put-upon sigh.

“No peace without violence,” Geralt deadpanned with a roll of his eyes. Jaskier beamed with pride.

Well, if their intent was to put her at ease with some humor, it worked. She dove, head first, into the nasty specifics of what she discovered at Kaer Seren. Her audience listened with mostly neutral faces for the majority of it. However, when she got to the evidence she found of the plans to re-initiate a Trial of the Grasses, she saw Geralt’s relaxed posture go rigid in an instant. Jaskier’s face paled and he shot a pitying look towards the witcher.

“I found no remains but it seems a foregone conclusion that he died before they could attempt it,” she concluded.

“You wouldn’t have,” Geralt assured her. “His body would have been burned to prevent him from coming back as something worse.”

She gave Geralt a grateful nod and set her nearly empty bottle aside. Standing up, she went to her satchel once more and began digging around the bottom of it.

“There’s something else,” she admitted while rummaging. “I probably shouldn’t have taken it but, well, I couldn’t just leave it there.”

Her hand closed around the fabric bundle she’d smuggled in there and she pulled it out. It was a scrap of old, moth-eaten black fabric wrapped around something small and round. She walked over to where Owen sat with a bemused expression and held it out to him.

“I couldn’t leave it for someone else to find,” she repeated herself. “I’m glad I took it because I’m hoping you’ll know what to do with it.”

Owen took it from her and carefully unwrapped the bundle of cloth. A sharp gasp left his lips when he pulled the contents free. Jaskier reached out a hand to grip Geralt’s arm before closing his eyes tightly, a grimace stretching his lips. Aisling looked to Geralt for any sort of reaction and found none. The man seemed frozen in place, the only indicator that he was remotely engaged was the piercing stare he had trained on the item Owen held.

There in the flickering firelight, swinging freely on its tarnished chain was Cenek’s medallion.

Carefully, Geralt said, “Witchers are typically burned with their medallions. The fires heat up to a temperature that damages the metal. This one has never seen a funeral pyre.”

She was desperate to take another drink, but full transparency proved more urgent. “I found it hanging on his door, on the outside.”

Geralt nodded. “If anyone who isn’t a witcher is found with a medallion, the assumption is that the possessor killed him. Carrying it around puts you at the risk of being attacked on the spot.”

She drank.

Geralt did as well before he continued, “Or there is a more rare, yet not impossible, option. Some witchers on the death wish the medallion be left to someone. Shortly after I completed the Trials, still recovering, a woman arrived at Kaer Morhen. Frostbitten and starving, at first I assumed her to be held by a powerful curse to make the ascent.” He shook his head. “She was there to claim the medallion of a witcher who died some years past. I had never seen Vesemir so cross. So reluctant to offer shelter and a warm meal. When I asked him why, he said that claiming a medallion implies, if not actual abandonment of duties, the desire to. That it left a black mark by Helmer’s name to hand the medallion over.”

The room went quiet with the weight of the implication. Cenek, not even able to send a mere letter, sent a message in his own way. But Merrick never knew.

Her head was spinning. “Where is Merrick’s grave?”

Owen gave her a strange look. “He’s entombed in a mausoleum near the University. I facilitated moving his remains to Kovir myself.”

“Well what’re we waiting for? Let’s go take the medallion there!” Perhaps it wasn’t the information, but the alcohol making her head spin. But the idea of a long walk in the fresh air on a righteous mission was too tempting to pass up.

Geralt raised an eyebrow. Jaskier gave a mead-soaked grin. Owen gasped. “That mausoleum is heavily fortified with magical wards! Unless the guard verifies your identity you can’t possibly enter.”

“Ha!” Aisling took a triumphant drink before staggering over to set her bottle on the dresser. “You think some wards can keep me out? Child’s play.” She pulled her shoes off and rifled through it to put on her more comfortable, rugged boots. 

“We cannot go graverobbing!” Owen exclaimed.

Jaskier looked like a cat who’d caught a canary. “No _robbing_ about it, this is a gift! It’s practically a public service.” He clapped a hand on Geralt’s shoulder to shove himself upright. “Come now, I think we owe Merrick some treasure.”

“I fear we’re all a tad drunk,” Geralt said. “Is this—”

Aisling abandoned lacing her boots to snag the medallion from Owen’s grasp. “Fine! If you’re all cowards I’ll do it _myself_. This sorceress isn’t failing Cenek.”

“Excuse me, I am already coming with you!” Jaskier stumbled over to her side and planted an arm on her shoulder, mead bottle still in hand.

She looked at him and said, “ _Thank you_ , bravest soul among you all.”

Geralt held a hand up. “I didn’t say no, just slow down. What’s this about failing?”

Her cheeks burned. She reached over a snagged Jaskier’s bottle, only to find a mouthful of the mead left. “Fine. I found no evidence that the witchers reached out to the king’s mages for help. Which makes sense, given the political climate at the time, but they could have _helped!_ The Griffins were on the right track, they just needed more power and finesse! There’s every possibility that —”

Geralt’s expression was soft as he listened to her and it only made her more upset. Tears pricked at her eyes. Geralt stood. “Hym are extremely dangerous. These alternative options would have very slim odds even with a legion of mages.”

One slipped out and down her cheek. “Cenek didn’t give up. We could have _tried._ ”

The smell of peach pulled her attention back to Jaskier, who was wiping the tear away for her. 

With a great sigh, Owen said, “Very well. To the mausoleum.”

* * *

The guards at the mausoleum were considerably less of a problem than the others anticipated. Aisling and her group were given a wide berth and curt nods of assent to enter upon her producing the official seal she carried with her at all times. She was there on an investigation, assigned by the king himself, she’d said. And her companions? Field experts with whom she was consulting. It was all very expedient and neat, just the way she preferred it.

“If I’m honest, that was a bit anticlimactic,” Jaskier whispered once they were inside and well out of earshot.

“Apologies if it wasn’t as death-defying as your usual exploits,” Aisling grumbled. “Would you have me cave in a ceiling or two?”

A truncated snort came from Geralt who gave her a sidelong glance and a wry twist to his lips. “Don't encourage him. He might take you up on that.”

Aisling covered a giggle with the back of her hand.

“I absolutely would _not_ ,” Jaskier defended. “And you, Geralt, stop trying to charm sorceresses. That did not go well for you last time either.”

This earned a much louder laugh from Aisling. She didn’t even bother to hold it in and let it echo off the stone walls and ornamented tombs. Sacrilege be damned.

“I may have compared myself to Yennefer but I merely wish to become her equal, not her duplicate,” she explained while trying to catch her breath. “That woman is fearsome, to say the least.”

“The _very_ least,” Jaskier amended. “Finally, someone who understands.”

“She saved your life, Jaskier,” Geralt reminded him with a sigh.

“Yes, and you saved hers and that should have been the end of it,” Jaskier quipped in reply, but there was very little heat to it. “Everything after that is entirely on you.”

Ahead of them, she heard Owen stifle a chuckle and mumble something about how he should have brought his notebook. He continued to lead them from one chamber to the next through the vast and nearly labyrinthine mausoleum. They stopped at a fairly new looking tomb in its own little alcove. The stone had been recently cleared of dust and fresh candles burned in the sconces on either side. She guessed Owen must have come through sometime earlier to tend to it.

The marble slab sealing the top of the sarcophagus was mostly plain save for Merrick’s name inscribed in large letters above what appeared to be a darkened metallic feather. Upon closer inspection, Aisling realized the feather was, in fact, a quill; an elaborate, old, and fairly worn one by the look of it. It sat inside of a carved stone inkwell, tilted to one side as if it were ready for use.

“It was the quill presented to Merrick upon becoming a full-fledged scribe. I had it bronzed,” Owen explained when he noticed her examining it, then lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Well, that is the version most people receive. The truth of it is that Merrick’s commemorative quill was accidentally destroyed during his travels.”

“So this one is…?”

“A replacement.” Owen nodded. “Purchased by a very apologetic someone after the original was crushed underfoot by an enraged rock troll.”

“So I’m not the only who has lost the tool of their trade in the line of duty,” Jaskier mused puckishly beside them. “Comforting, that.”

Geralt scoffed but, wisely, said no more. Clearly he recognized that it was not the time for them to start exchanging snappy bon mots again. Owen just shook his head with a fond smile and pulled the medallion from where he’d hidden it inside his coat. Aisling watched as he reverently wound the chain around the base of the quill and inkwell, waiting until he was satisfied with the placement before she gently tucked the letters she’d found underneath the medallion itself.

Her hand lingered as she couldn’t bear to pull away just yet, so she let it sit, open-palmed against the cool stone. To her surprise, three other hands joined hers atop the sarcophagus. She looked at them in shock, only to find each of them with their eyes intently closed. Owen wore a peaceful, wistful expression while nodding occasionally to himself. Jaskier frowned with concentration and a litany of soundless words left his lips with lightning quickness. And beside him, with his head hung in stoic silence, was Geralt.

Aisling let her own eyes fall shut and uttered a quiet spell. She told the others it was a simple blessing in the hopes that Merrick and Cenek found each other in the afterlife. However, she’d also added a strong ward that rendered the items they left behind essentially immovable upon pain of death. If Geralt’s pointed look after she voiced her half-truth was anything to go by, he was the only one who noticed. She was prepared to combat it with a carefree shrug and a sheepish grin, but he caught her off guard with his slight smile and nod of approval.

Were she still the impressionable young mage she was two decades prior, this would have merited an excited entry in her diary. The day she shared a secret with a witcher.

* * *

They bid Owen farewell at his lodgings. The goodbye lingered and was peppered with promises to visit if any of them made their way to Oxenfurt. It left Aising nervous as she walked with Geralt and Jaskier back to her room as dawn clawed its way up the sky. 

Before they entered, Aising finally mustered up the courage to ask, "So, what are your plans tomorrow?"

"I managed to acquire a guest lecturer spot, but after that? It's up to him," Jaskier said, glancing at Geralt. 

Geralt shrugged. "Someplace warm, for a time. Monsters lurk wherever despite the temperature."

Aisling nodded, rewriting her real question for the thousandth time. Trying to stall, she said, " Well, I'm rather behind submitting my report and it's clear I must re-work major sections of it. I believe there is a serious error in my interpre—"

Geralt cocked a head. Jaskier gave her a patient smile and said, "We will seek you out whenever we have the chance, and I believe you know that by now. What's troubling you?"

She chewed her lip again and fought the temptation to try and cast some sort of protective spell on them. Given she was at least able to magic together Merrick and Cenek's belongings, she wanted to do something to cement Geralt and Jaskier together. She can't keep them safe all of the time. She can't get them to stay and work in Kovir. She desperately didn't want to live to see their end be that tragic, but she didn't know how to express that.

"I want to help." She finally said. "I don't want the mistakes of the past repeated again. And I'm not one who blindly trusts in destiny or holds free will sacred when it just requires the courage to do something right. I want to be able to do… something, anything I can so that I don’t find myself in another mausoleum somewhere putting wards on a lute wrapped in a wolf medallion."

"I understand," Geralt said. "And I can assure you that while our paths have been similar, they have strayed in crucial manners." He took a beat, and softer than before said, "For instance, we've admitted our love for one another." 

Butterflies flapped in her stomach as Jaskier smiled serenely. "It doesn't solve all. It doesn't change our natures, it doesn't put food on the table, and it doesn't handle a certain djinn situation…" 

Geralt grunted, but Jaskier was undeterred. "But our prides have been tempered somewhat, I promise that."

She felt tears prickle in her eyes once again. "Thank goodness." With that weight off of her shoulders, she felt tired, and for the first time in a long time, lonely. She'd sent her Griffin away and soon Owen, Geralt, and Jaskier would be gone as well. She'd be left to her report and a book that would make her ache for this very night all over again. 

"You owe us a promise as well," Geralt said. "Because now that we know you, we will be wondering what new chaos you're causing with no one to keep you in check." 

She scrambled for an argument but Jaskier said, "Never tell her I said this, but Yennefer is one of the most brilliant and talented _beings_ in existence. But her headstrong nature is one with just as worthy of a cautionary tale, so please, for the sake of my little heart —"

"For the sake of the Continent," Geralt quipped.

"Don't walk alone, Aisling." 

"You might have stood a chance at tracking me down if you had another by your side." Geralt gave her a pointed look and the weight of Jaskier's words was balanced by the dig. 

She sighed. "Very well. I… I can try."

"You're clearly relentless when it comes to doing the right thing," Geralt said. "So I am positive you'll try and succeed."


	5. Epilogue: Bound to be Exceptional

Aisling kept her promise and invited Triss to visit her several months later once their schedules finally aligned. When the portal opened in the sitting room of her quarters on palace grounds, two sorceresses stepped through instead of just the one she’d expected. She watched the rhythmic sway of black hair atop an equally black dress with wary eyes.

“I hope you don’t mind me adding one more to our gathering,” Triss said, pointing to the mage beside her. “This one dropped by unannounced and I couldn’t just leave her there.”

“You certainly could have,” Yennefer countered smoothly. “You’re just nice enough that you’d avoid such a slight.”

“I’d also like to avoid whatever shape your retribution would take.” Triss rolled her eyes. “You’re not exactly the forgiving sort.”

“A wise choice all around then,” Yennefer agreed before turning her self-satisfied smile towards Aisling. “Don’t look so nervous, Aisling dear, I made sure to bring supplemental drinks since I assumed you only prepared enough for two.”

She gestured to the wooden crate that Aisling only just noticed floating behind her. “Twelve bottles of Pomino.”

“I—that’s extremely generous of you, Yennefer.” Aisling stared open-mouthed as the crate of profanely expensive wine landed on the floor in front of her. “Thank you.”

Yennefer just waved off her thanks and perched herself on the chaise lounge by the fireplace. Triss offered an apologetic look and settled into a nearby armchair. Aisling shrugged. She had to get over her hesitance around Yennefer someday. Yes, she was formidable, notoriously vengeful, extremely talented, and powerful but, at the end of the day, she was still just a person.

And people, as of late, kept pleasantly surprising her.

She fetched an additional goblet and filled each one nearly to the brim. Passing one off to each of her guests, she sat with the remaining goblet in the last unoccupied chair.

“So, how does this usually proceed?” Yennefer asked. “Idle chit-chat over dainty sips of wine?”

Triss’ loud snort echoed into her goblet as she drank. “We’re not in public, Yen.”

“You can talk as little or as much as you want,” Aisling supplemented since Triss was neither the host nor did she seem to believe that any hospitality was necessary when it came to Yennefer. “The same goes for the drink.”

“Excellent, because I was recently told a rather fascinating tale by a well-known bard,” Yennefer all but purred and gave her a knowing look. “I know he has the tendency to exaggerate, so I wanted to hear the other side of the story.”

Aisling felt her stomach plummet to her feet and gulped. “You ran into Jaskier, I take it?” she asked with a nervous laugh.

“You’ve met Jaskier?!” Triss asked in disbelief, nearly choking down her mouthful of wine. “That means you also met—oh, I _need_ to hear all about this. Anything involving those two is bound to be exceptional.”

“Indeed.” Yennefer’s grin was wild and her eyes sparkled with violet mischief. “Please indulge us.”

Aisling unsteadily worked her way from her discovery at Kaer Seren to the events in Lan Exeter under the unnervingly watchful eyes of her audience. Clearly dissatisfied with her stilted exposition, Yennefer decided that goblet-sized portions were inadequate. Triss agreed and, soon, all three of them were drinking directly from the mouth of their own bottle of Pomino. Sure enough, the story flowed more freely after that. It felt reckless and luxurious and not unlike another similar evening that, of course, she loved every second of it.

“So you didn’t sleep with Geralt?” Yennefer asked innocently once she’d finished.

After everything she’d explained, _that_ was her only question? Aisling wrinkled her nose and shook her head, not sure if she was being teased.

“Neither the thought nor the desire occurred to me.”

“More’s the pity,” Yennefer lamented with a sigh. “It really is quite the experience. Then again, I’m sure Jaskier would’ve been none too pleased had you tried.”

Ah, she was definitely being teased. “So you know about them?”

“Suspected, predicted, knew,” Yennefer heaved a shrug and tossed back another swig of wine. “It’s all the same. At the very least, it’s a relief to not have to suffocate from the sheer amount of tension in the room with those two anymore.”

Triss, with her own bottle to her lips, could only grunt in agreement.

Aisling winced. “That bad?”

“Oh, gods, you’ve _no_ idea,” Yennefer said emphatically. “I’m not one to go in for matchmaking but even I wanted to lock them in a pantry just to force them to fucking sort it out.”

“I’m sure they would’ve done both of those things,” Triss remarked with a smirk.

A howl of laughter burst from Yennefer’s lips at that. It was so raw and raucous that it was contagious. Triss was already shaking with mirth and Aisling soon found she couldn’t stop her own giggles from bubbling forth. They laughed until tears spilled from their eyes and the only thing stopping them was the need to breathe. A quiet settled over the room and they were all sighs and surreptitious dabs at their faces to ensure their makeup hadn’t completely gone to ruin.

“Well, Aisling, I don’t know how, but you’ve somehow managed to single-handedly hit it off with my closest friend, the man I’m unfortunately bonded to by destiny, and his lover.” Yennefer admitted.

It all sounded rather bizarre the more she thought about it. Yet Yennefer had said it in such a plain, matter-of-fact way. Then again, she supposed, bizarre probably became commonplace when you lived as long as most mages did. So it really shouldn’t have been that strange when Yennefer smiled and raised her bottle in obeisance.

“Welcome to the family.”

* * *

BONUS CONTENT! BONUS CONTENT! BOOONNUUUUSS CONTENT!

Perhaps Aki forgot to post this shortly after Aik's creation of it, perhaps Aki was saving it for a special occasion? Who knows. But, totally unrelated to this fic Aik created something pretty neat and now it's a surprise for anyone who read through this incredibly self-indulgent, OC-fueled fic. Enjoy!


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